Extend the Olive Branch
by Wisecrack Idiots
Summary: Inviting their former enemy to join the Blue Team was definitely their second stupidest idea ever. Of all time. The first was letting Caboose convince them to do it. S8 conclusion.


I'm pretty sure the idea's been done to death, of what happened in the timespan between Epsilon getting sealed in the memory unit and the UNSC soldiers arriving, but I still wanted to have a go at it. Seemed like too good of an opportunity to waste. (That and I'm totally _not_ obsessed with Washington. _¬_¬_ It's not like I rewatched this episode twenty times just so I could drool over him or something like that. Nope. Definitely not.)

For those of you who have actual medical degrees, feel free to laugh yourselves sick at Doc's (and my) ill attempts at bastardized medical malpractice.

**Warnings:** Language, gore, innuendos; the usual flair.

* * *

**Extend the Olive Branch**

Doc naturally thought Sarge had been exaggerating when he'd said that Washington wouldn't make it. After all, the grizzled old soldier's native tongue was hyperbole (if you weren't counting his Southern drawl, that is, which Doc wasn't). Besides, he'd seen the ex-Freelancer take some rather impressive beatings in the short time they'd been acquainted. A few explosions should have been nothing for the gray armored soldier. He'd honestly expected Washington to just shake it off and bounce back on his feet like it was nothing. …Well, maybe not "bounce," per se. Washington seemed a little too dignified for that.

Or maybe that was what his half-frantic mind had tried to convince itself of as he quickly (but not quickly enough for his tastes) trotted over to the small gathering. Tucker, Sarge, and Grif were huddled around the limp prone form, close enough to actually reach out and touch him but far away enough that the proximity didn't seem untoward and overly-familiar. Hearing Doc's boots kick up snow, the group turned to face him. The relief in their postures couldn't have been any more obvious if someone had drawn faces on their visors with a marker.

"What's wrong with him?" Doc demanded as he skidded to an ungraceful halt a foot off.

"How the fuck are we supposed to know?" Grif shot right back. "You're the medic, remember? That's why we called _you_ over."

"Well, I thought you guys would have had, you know, a really good reason for saying he's not going to survive."

Grif threw his hands up in the air. Exasperation dripped off of his words. "He's lying on the ground and not moving! Is that a good enough reason?"

"Dude, you spend, like, three quarters of the day lying on your back and not moving, and no one's tried to bury your body," Tucker pointed out.

"Says you," Sarge muttered under his breath.

"That's because I'm sleeping, not dead!" the orange soldier snapped. He jabbed a finger at Washington's body. "Does he look like he's sleeping?"

"Well if he is, fella sure chose a strange place to take a siesta." Sarge stuck out a foot and prodded Washington in the ribs. "Yep. Seems dead as a doornail to me."

With a chiding sigh Doc kneeled at the Recovery Agent's side and swatted away Sarge's boot. "Let me take a look at him, will you? And would you quit touching him? You'll make it worse!"

"Worse?" Tucker snorted. "The guy's been shot, stabbed, blown up, knocked off a cliff, and kicked in the head at least a dozen times each. I don't think it can get any worse."

_He could be bleeding out in his armor_. The purple medic bit on his tongue to stop the errant thought from leaving his mouth. Instead, he wrapped his fingers around the heavy gunmetal gray armor, and delicately pushed against Washington's side, flipping him onto his back.

Doc fought back the urge to recoil.

Sure, he'd seen a lot of nasty field injuries (his last residency came to mind) but this was topping them all in every respect. The exterior alone looked completely _mangled_. Spiderweb fractures splintered along the craters and dents in the armor on his arms. Persistent red droplets continued to bead along the cracks in the metal, dripping in a steady line down the limb and staining the snow. Even the black gloves were ripped, with tattered skin bleeding afresh into the fabric. Of the two the left arm was easily the worst, evident by the strong gush pouring out of a bullet hole near his shoulder.

More concaved plating along his thighs, hairline fractures across his visor, all that _blood_… He was a mess.

Behind him, he heard Grif give a low whistle. "Man, and just when you thought a guy couldn't get any more fucked up… All we need to do now is perform a bisection with a Warthog and he's practically in Guinness for 'Least Survivable Injuries.'"

"Grif!" Sarge rebuked, appalled.

The orange soldier held his palms up in a placating gesture. "What? I'm just saying, if I were Wash, I'd be taking photos of myself in a mirror and texting them to Guinness before I pass out. I mean, hey, it's a pretty good way to get famous."

"Being a wanted criminal of the UNSC is a pretty good way too," Tucker spat.

Sarge actually leaned across the space separating him from his subordinate, and hit him on the back of the skull.

"Ow!" Grif attempted to hop away from the abuse, all the while pawing at the back of his helmet. "What was that for?"

Sarge crossed his arms over his chestplate. "While most people would've hit you for disrespecting a dying man—"

"He's not dying!" Doc protested.

"—I used it to make up for a lost opportunity."

"'Lost opportunity'?" Grif spluttered. He flailed his arms, nearly smacking Tucker in the process. "For what?"

"For getting my hopes up and not accepting your ultimate demise," Sarge harrumphed, his tone saturated with disappointment and blame, as if it was _Grif's_ fault for not plummeting to his death like a good little private. "Somehow the Meta managed to die while you survived, cheating death—and me—of my Grif-free future. So many dreams shattered just because Simmons had to look over the edge."

The aqua soldier made a sympathetic noise in the back of his throat, his face moving back and forth between the pair. "…Damn, man, and I thought Church was an asshole," he said almost consolingly, and at the same time sounding strangely pleased that he'd been spared from a similar fate.

Sarge was still ranting as if Tucker hadn't spoken, amazingly: "...at least I can comfort myself with the fact that I'll now have the chance to kill you off myself. Heh heh. Guess that means I'll just have to—"

"Guys, please!" The sharp plea silenced their bickering. Glancing back over his shoulder at the trio, Doc frowned behind his helmet and shook his head. "I can't concentrate if you keep talking."

"Right." Tucker awkwardly shifted his weight between his feet. "Sorry."

Certain that they'd comply, at least for now, the purple medic swiveled back around to face his patient. God, where to even begin? Just at a glance everything looked bad. What if he didn't have enough supplies to treat all of his injuries? There were probably dozens of surface wounds, and what if Washington had a fracture? Oh hell, who was he kidding? In the last hour alone he'd watched the ex-Freelancer get attacked in every conceivable manner possible by cars, people, glaciers, and guns. Honestly, Doc would have been more surprised if Washington walked away from this with only _half_ of his bones broken.

The medic squared his shoulders. He was wasting time nattering over the what-ifs while Washington continued to gush blood like a ruptured hose.

Carefully, Doc reached for the latch at the base of the helmet, and began undoing the basic maintenance attachments.

"What are you doing?"

At some point Simmons had apparently wandered over to join them, with a morose-looking Caboose in tow. The maroon and cobalt soldiers were staring in seeming shock at Doc. Well, as "shocked" as someone could look wearing an expressionless visor.

"I need to remove his armor. How else am I supposed to treat him?"

"Magic?" Grif offered sarcastically.

Off to the side Tucker had cocked his head in thought. "So wait, let me get this straight: The plan is to take off his armor, and fix his wounds, while simultaneously giving him hypothermia. Did I hear that right?"

"Yeah, Doc," Simmons tacked on, "he's going to freeze without his suit's temperature regulation systems. It's got to be, like, fucking negative thirty degrees out here."

At that Doc did pause, if only for a heartbeat. He dismissed the concern with a light shrug, his hand once again fumbling and pulling at the locks along the helmet. "Then we'll have to move him inside the facility once I stabilize him. He's gonna have to be cold for a little while."

"Thank God Donut isn't here," Grif scathed from behind. "He'd probably start swooning as soon as he saw you dressing Wash down."

"…You do remember that Agent Washington was the one who _killed_ Donut, right?" Simmons reasoned, his voice somewhere between _Are you fucking kidding me?_ and _Oh God now I need to bleach my brain of the mental images_.

"And Lopez," said Sarge in a woeful drawl. "Poor, poor Lopez. All on his lonesome in the great junkyard of the sky."

Unsurprisingly the orange soldier didn't have a reply for that.

So Tucker gladly stepped in to fill the void.

"Then why exactly are we trying to save the douchebag who betrayed us to the Meta and had no problem with using us as his personal shooting gallery?"

Digging his fingertips beneath the underside of the helmet, Doc answered, "We can't just leave him out here to die! It would make us no better than…well, him. And I technically can't turn away an injured soldier since I took an oath. Besides," he fussed, "I don't want to have his blood on my hands."

"Son, you already have Wash's blood on your hands. Literally!" Sarge gave an ominous chuckle.

Oh—right. Both of his hands now sported bright red stains from where he'd made contact with the damaged parts of the armor. Inwardly Doc tried not to dwell on that fact as he finally, with a pneumatic hiss, pried off the damaged equipment and tossed it aside into the snowdrift.

In the brief time the medic had been held hostage he'd never once seen Washington's face. Whether it was rampant paranoia or a Freelancer quirk, neither he nor the Meta ever removed their armor, even when settling down for the night. So naturally Doc had been a bit curious as to actually see what lay underneath the cold exterior.

_Bright blonde hair_ had definitely been at the bottom of his list. It was an unforgettable wheat color, with gray fringing the edges near his temples. Overgrown and unkempt bangs outlined what must have been a once handsome, almost boyish-looking face. Time and the brutalities of Project Freelancer had stripped away a good deal of his youth, leaving a somewhat rugged appearance in its wake. Deep shadows pooled beneath his eyes, while cheekbones stood out sharply beneath pale skin.

It was to Doc's immense relief that apart from a few shallow scratches and bruises Washington hadn't suffered any apparent cranial injuries. At least he could cross _brain damage_ off his mental list.

Unsteady hands skated across his torso and sought out the connections for the chestplate. With a soft _click_ the damaged gear loosened, allowing Doc to slide it off the fibrous mesh undersuit that made up all standard UNSC uniforms. Shoulder pads followed next, then the plating along his arms. Throughout it all Doc couldn't suppress the cold pinpricks in his stomach at the complete lack of reaction from Washington.

No muscle spasms. No noises of distress. Not even a twitch in his eerily slack face.

Doc didn't like how surreal it felt.

After what felt like an agonizingly long five minutes the last of the upper torso armor was dumped in the snow. With so many pairs of eyes watching him struggle to undo the body suit's connections, an uncharacteristic nervousness began creeping down his spine, far colder than the chill of the surrounding mountains. The oppressive silence was compounded by the roaring blood in his eardrums, the sickening beating of his own heart against his ribcage.

Blood had begun congealing in the thick fabric of the polymer mesh around the injury in his shoulder. That much blood loss couldn't have been good. Doc bit down on his bottom lip, gaze unfocused on the half-hidden wound while his hands moved on autopilot with stripping down the suit.

Why did these stupid suits have so many zippers? A frustrated noise rose in the back of his throat, at complete odds with the medic's normally positive and laidback demeanor. If they ever made it out of Sidewinder and not into a prison jail cell, Doc was going to track down the guy who designed the armor and file a complaint.

When he went to pull the final connection on the suit, it didn't budge. Nonplussed, Doc tried yanking on it a smidgen harder, only to feel a slither of incredulity when the zipper remained stubbornly in place.

It was _stuck_?

Scratch that; _multiple_ complaints.

"Does anyone have a knife I can borrow?" Doc asked as he gave another fruitless tug on the uniform. No wonder Washington never took off his armor; he was probably trapped in it.

"Euthanasia!" Gleefully Sarge unsheathed the combat knife fastened at his waist with a flourish, causing those closest to him (Grif and Tucker) to back up with an understandably healthy dose of fear. "Clearly it would be only humane to end his sufferings for him, instead of letting it drag out while we stand by and watch. If you'd like I could even do the honors for you, seeing as you're all into that wishy-washy pacifism hooey."

"What? No!" Doc resisted the urge to throw himself on top of the ex-Freelancer like a living meatshield. Instead he waved his hands frantically at the all-too-keen Sarge, who was still poised and looking for all the world like he couldn't wait to "help" Wash. "We're not killing him!"

At that the Red's shoulders drooped. "We're not?"

"No. I need it to remove the suit. It's stuck." Boy, did that sound stupid.

"Dagnabbit." You could all but feel the disappointment emanating from Sarge like a stars emits heat, as he held out the blade and offered it to Doc. "You sure there's no chance he won't make it?"

"I'm pretty sure there's a good chance he'll live," the medic replied, as he began methodically cutting along the seam, careful not to wedge the knife in too deeply.

"One hundred percent sure, or ninety-nine percent sure?"

"One hundred."

"Are you absolutely sure that it wasn't a decimal, and you just rounded up?"

"I don't think decimals are an accurate or acceptable way to measure someone's life expectancy. Also, I don't like how there's too much implied doubt involved. So no, definitely one hundred."

"Aww, rats."

To be honest, Doc wasn't sure how we was able to keep up the inane conversation as he preoccupied himself with removing the suit. For a synthetic polymer-based fabric, it was surprisingly sturdy. Not unlike the soldier wearing it. That might have sounded overly optimistic on Doc's part, perhaps, as he struggled not to dwell on how to go about treating a Brute Shot wound. But a renewed flare of confidence had the purple medic certain that—as he removed the last layer—the odds were in everyone's favor.

That flare of confidence abruptly fizzled out like a wet firecracker.

Despite the fact that their armor was designed to negate the worst of combat damage, there was still a deep hole in his left shoulder, cherry-red and drenched in body fluid. The black military fatigues encompassing the wound were sheared and tattered, revealing torn muscles tissue and broken blood vessels.

"That…doesn't look good," Grif said uncertainly. Multiple heads turned in his direction.

"That might actually be the single most underwhelming description in the universe." Simmons scoffed.

"It's okay," Doc hastily assured, voice cracking slightly as he stared through his visor at the hungry red ooze sliding over the ruined clothes. It sounded more like he was trying to convince himself of his words, not the others. He reached a hand out toward the bullet wound, only to snatch it right back. His insides were replaced with a vacuum in the pit of his stomach, its gravity slowly pulling him in. "I can fix this."

"Unless you've got a portable E.R. stashed in your pockets or an ambulance parked around the mountains, then I'd say ol' Wash is as good as kicked it," Sarge put in, the sudden dip in his voice shooting back up with morbid cheerfulness. "Guess the only thing left to do now is make him comfortable while he dies. Ain't that what medics supposed to do?"

"Um, Sarge? You might want to reconsider your unhealthy fascination with killing things." As the medic spoke he began rifling through his armor in search of his first aid kit, his distress increasing by leaps and bounds when he couldn't immediately locate it on his person. He didn't leave it back at Sandtrap, did he? "And would you quit saying that! He's not going to die!"

"Maybe we should say a few words?" Tucker ventured, though there was a suspicious undercurrent of amusement in his suggestion. "Like, 'thanks for killing the pink guy and evening the teams.'"

"How about 'thanks for contracting the Meta to hunt us down,'" Grif snarked.

"Yeah… Or, 'thanks for using the green Christmas light on me to keep me alive,'" Caboose piped up for the first time.

Five pairs of eyes snapped toward him.

"Wait, wait, wait—what did you just say?" Tucker asked.

The cobalt soldier rocked back on his heels, head tipped to the side as he retreated into his memories. "Oh, yeah, you weren't there for that. But there was this one time, at this place, where the scary guy shot me and Agent Washingtub used a Christmas light to make me better." He sounded distinctly proud of himself for being able to remember. "I always knew LED lights were good for your health."

"LED Christmas lights?" Simmons echoed. "Wait. You mean his _healing unit_?"

Doc's head snapped up at that. "Wash has a healing unit? Why didn't somebody say so?" He glanced about his surroundings, half expecting said healing unit to materialize from the ether like a godsend. "Well, where is it?"

"Um, it might or might not be inside his armor…which is really, really broken…so it might be broken too." Caboose paused. "Do we have any duct tape?"

"Duct tape? You can't fix a sophisticated piece of equipment with duct tape!" Simmons barked. There was a brief pause, then: "…Can you?"

"You could always use some good old fashion percussive maintenance," Sarge said, watching in bemusement as Doc began frantically examining the armor suit pieces he'd tossed aside into the snow. "Whacking the crap out of any malfunctioning doodad always fixes it up! After three or four karate chops Lopez always ran at a faster capacity."

"He was running faster because he was trying to run away!" Grif exclaimed.

"I think I found it!" Doc's cheer interrupted the would-be argument between commander and soldier. There was a grating_ clank _as he managed to remove the battered equipment from the inside of the gray-yellow chestplate and rest it next to Washington's head. Throughout the entire process the comatose Recovery Agent didn't react. "Okay," he began somewhat shakily. "Okay, I think we can still use this. Like Caboose said, it's damaged, but it's still functional." Doc illustrated by gesturing to the faint yet steady glow in the equipment's seams. "It should help stabilize him."

"But…?" Tucker, sensing the hesitation, prodded.

A brief flash followed his question. Chartreuse light illuminated the skin on Washington's face and neck from the phosphorous orb suspended over his chest.

Questing hands managed to locate the errant med kit. A deep sigh escaped the medic as he popped open the container and began rummaging through its contents. "But I still need to patch up the wound. He's losing a lot of blood. The healing unit can help staunch the flow, but it's not strong enough to do all the work on its own."

"Don't those health kits have that weird biofoam shit or something like that?" Grif asked, almost offhandedly.

The fact that he even knew what biofoam was made Doc glance up in surprise. "How did you know that?"

At that Grif took a step back, looking uncomfortably put on the spot. Clearly, he hadn't meant to reveal that piece of information. "Oh, um, I read…about it…somewhere?"

"You mean you mistook it for toothpaste and ate nearly half the tube before you started choking on it," Simmons remarked bitingly.

"Wow, dude. That's even dumber than the time Caboose tried to substitute a grenade with Mentos and Diet Pepsi," Tucker snorted.

Instead of sounding offended Caboose merely continued to stare at the healing unit—and consequentially, _Washington_—with a sort of focus that had Doc's hackles up. "The splash damage was even better than a regular grenade. It managed to splash fifty percent more stuff, and get one hundred percent more wet!"

Sarge made a noise in the back of his throat somewhere between a snort and a sigh.

"Well, we don't have any Mentos-Pepsi grenades. Or biofoam." Almost a shade desperate now, the medic began digging through the pathetically small kit, punctuating his alarm every time he chucked something over his shoulder. Of all the times Murphy's Law had to pick, and it had to be _now_? "Oh come on, there's got to be one in here!"

"Can we substitute or something?" Simmons inquired, his own inflection adopting a similarly worried tone. "You know, like apply pressure to the arm?"

A sensation akin to being blindsided by his own stupidity hit Doc full force. What was he doing? He was a medic, albeit a bad one, but still. _Basic training, DuFresne_, he berated himself viciously. _Come on, you can do better than this_. _Get your head in the game._ "Hey, Tucker, Caboose, can you please go into the base and see if you can find any fuel to get a fire going? We'll need a way to regulate his body temperature."

"Got it."

"Okay!"

The two Blues took off in the direction of the dark compound at (thankfully) breakneck speed.

"Sarge, Simmons, I need you two to go salvage pieces from the jeep that blew up. Hopefully there's a piece big enough that we can use as a makeshift toboggan, so we can transport Wash without jarring him too much."

"What about me?" Grif demanded while watching his teammates' silhouettes get swallowed up by the blizzard and howling wind. "What am I supposed to do?"

"We're going to prep him and get him ready for transport." As he spoke Doc began removing the armor along his right arm. Once the final piece of gear was detached from his suit the frigid cold drove into his skin. Icy needles bit into the exposed limb, sending shocks down the nerves in his arm. Teeth grit, Doc wielded the knife from earlier, made a fine cut into his shirt sleeve, and carefully used his fingers to tear a fine strip from the fabric. "I'm going to need you to elevate his legs while I start making a tourniquet so he won't bleed out."

"Uh…" The orange soldier's gaze slid toward Washington's legs, before darting back toward Doc. "Can't we trade places or something?"

"Unless you know how to make a tourniquet, then I really need you to do get between his legs and—"

"And_ that's_ where I draw the line," Grif interrupted. "Look, I know that you were trained, so getting all close and personal with patients is no big deal. But when you've lived with Donut for the past few years—"

A nerve near the back of his head popped.

"Donut is dead," Doc snapped, tone uncharacteristically sharp, "and Wash is going to be dead in the next five minutes if you don't help!"

Tense silence lapsed between the two men. Apart from the haunting moan of the wind and the thunder of glaciers sliding together, the air was unnaturally still.

This time the Red complied and crouched before Washington's legs. Awkwardness pervaded every motion of his body as Grif gingerly hooked his hands under his ankles and held them in the air. Doc nodded once in approval before redirecting his attention to the still-bleeding shoulder, strip of cloth and combat knife in hand.

He really hated improvising.

As he set to work with securing the material around Washington's bicep his thoughts moved on replay, his shout echoing in the recesses of his mind with painful clarity. Since when did he ever yell? Guilt churned in his gut, made worse by the red on his fingertips as he fastened the knife to the cloth strip and began twisting clockwise. The knife was hardly a standard replacement for a stick, but it was the closest thing he had to a baton.

Doc never lost his patience with, well, anyone. It wasn't logical. It wasn't helpful. It wasn't _nice_. Being passive-aggressive was pushing it most days, but actually resorting to shouting to get something done? The impulsive reaction weighed heavily on his conscience, leaden on his conflicted emotions, at war with every measure Doc took to ensure his own composure. The last time he'd acted so out of turn had been when O'Malley had taken up residency in his head, back at Blood Gulch. And even then the aggression had always been a byproduct of the A.I., not something Doc chose to do of his own volition.

For a heartbeat his gaze strayed from the makeshift tourniquet to Washington's face. Like a snare the pale complexion locked him in, and Doc discovered with some great difficulty that he couldn't look away.

In the last two weeks alone he'd been threatened, hit, dehydrated, yelled at, dragged halfway across the continent in a slab of stone, and forced to ignore his ethics to further the agenda of a homicidal mute. And throughout it all Wash had been there, micromanaging the Meta and their pursuit of Epsilon. The distant, sarcastic ex-Freelancer, who alone had held Doc's very life in his hands.

And now…now their roles were reversed.

With the rapid pace of events that had unfolded around him, up until then Doc hadn't found much time to analyze his situation. But somewhere in the clean snowfall and scarlet blood and shuddering lights of the healing unit, he found the time.

Tucker had said what everyone else had already thought: Washington did try to kill them. Directly and indirectly. _Multiple times_. Why help the man who'd thought nothing of attacking his friends and taking hostages? Why bother trying to save him when they knew he couldn't be trusted?

Again, Doc's visor fell on the slack and somewhat pained-looking features of the unconscious agent. Monsters were made, not born, he had come to realize as he'd watched the aggressive and obsessed former Agent Maine hunt down A.I. Circumstances beyond his control had stripped him of all options but one. Maybe Washington had been no different.

Desperation did things to people that altered their very psyches. Fear caused people to act out-of-character.

And right then and there, Doc was afraid.

Besides, Washington had spared him. And for all of his faults, he really wasn't a bad guy, per se. He was almost decent when he wasn't under pressure and letting his frustration get the better of him. Certainly no worse than any of his friends.

"Are you almost done?" Grif whined. "My arms are getting tired!"

"Just about," Doc answered, surprised by how even his tone sounded. With one hand securing the tourniquet, the medic reached into his meager first aid kit and began fishing around for a needle and sutures. Those supplies he at least remembered being there the last time he took inventory.

They heard approaching footsteps.

Through the white cloak of snow and hail Sarge's and Simmons' red armor could be picked out, their colors emerging wraithlike from the intensifying storm. Behind Simmons trailed a large, flat strip of metal with charring along the edges.

"Come on, Simmons!" Sarge barked. "Put your back into it!"

"I'm trying, sir!" You could hear the waver in Simmons' reply as he struggled with pulling the heavy slab behind him. "If I put any more of my back into it I'm going to dislocate my spine!"

"Over here!" Doc waved the pair over, and not a second later the two Reds stood behind him with their "sled." "Once I'm done stitching him up I'm going to need you two to help move him."

"Wait—you're stitching up the wound with the bullet still in it?" Grif asked incredulously. "He's gonna get lead poisoning!"

"Bullets haven't been made out of lead since the twenty-first century, dumbass," snapped Simmons.

"The human body is pretty resilient," Doc explained, while he threaded the needle through the bloodied skin. The repetitive slide of metal through flesh was strangely hypnotic. It amazed him how easily he lost himself in the rhythm, considering what happened the last time he'd tried applying sutures. He still had the scars. "It's actually considered more dangerous to try and remove the foreign object than it is to leave it in."

"But what about all those Hollywood movies where the hero gets shot with an arrow and has to courageously pull it out with his own hands?" Sarge remarked.

As Doc continued to stitch the wound closed (all the while immensely grateful that Washington was unconscious for this part), he heard Simmons explain, "Think about that sentence. _Hollywood movie_. They never prescribe to real-world logic."

"Simmons is right, guys." With a deep sigh Doc rocked back on his heels, and purely on reflex went to wipe the sweat from his brow. Only when his unarmored hand managed to smear a long streak of blood on his visor did he remember, belatedly, that he was still wearing his helmet.

"Eww. Gross." Grif made a gagging noise.

"We can move him into the base now." Doc chose to ignore the comment. Instead he stumbled to his feet, picking up his shoulder armor and med kit in his hands as he did so. He turned to face Grif, and one look at the blood-smeared visor had the orange soldier flinching, nearly pulling too hard on Wash's legs in the process. "Be gentle! _Be gentle!_"

"Oh relax," Sarge rumbled, "it ain't like the guy's made of fine China." He wandered toward the Freelancer's head and crouched in the snow adjacent from Simmons, who had taken over for Grif, much to the orange soldier's immense relief. "All right, let's do the old heave-ho and get him on."

"_Gently_," Doc stressed.

"What are you, his mom?" Grif made a rude sound as he backed away from his comrades' sliding Washington onto the elongated scrap metal. "It's like it's his first day at school and you're packing his bagged lunch for him—"

None too gently the medic thrust the healing unit into Grif's hands, before he could gather his wits and argue.

"Walk alongside him so the equipment still works as he's transported." Doc watched Grif slink off next to his teammates, taking up a hunched trudge alongside the duo as they began propelling the toboggan over the snow. Only then did Grif's implication finally catch up.

God, he_ was_ starting to sound like Washington's mom. Worse, he was starting to sound like _Washington_.

Maybe Grif was onto something.

Tutting, more to himself than anything, Doc hitched his tools and armor plating more firmly in his arms before sprinting after them.

Five minutes of painstaking walking later and they were greeted by the sight of Tucker and Caboose sequestered at the entrance to the compound. Both were taking in turns to toss pieces of whatever had been lying around the abandoned facility—old crates, a traffic cone, some pieces of paper, a propane tank—into a fairly impressive bonfire.

"…for the last time, no!" Tucker emphasized the last syllable by slamming a piece of cardboard into the fire. Embers leaped up in the air in a shower of orange pinpricks, their glow fading as they drifted toward the blackened snow. The aqua soldier glared at Caboose from across the leaping flames. "We are not doing it! Just because you have a death wish doesn't mean I have one, too!"

"But he needs our help," Caboose begged. The two Blues were unaware of their audience as the ragtag group trudged closer. "Think about what will happen if we don't help."

"Dude, I am thinking about what'll happen: even more of those crazy soldiers will show up looking for him." With a haughty snort he leaned against a nearby wall, dragging a hand down his visor as he did so. "Besides, what do we look like? An orphanage for unwanted dickheads? We already have enough problems with the ones that got dumped on our doorstep."

"To be fair, Doc is only a partial dickhead," Grif chirped.

The medic hung his head while blowing out a long sigh through his cheeks. "_Thanks_, guys."

"What are you arguing about anyway?" queried Simmons, meanwhile dragging the comatose Freelancer the last few feet into the shelter of the base. With synchronized groans of relief the Reds pushed him to a standstill a safe distance from the blaze. Immediately Doc dropped to Washington's side and began checking his pulse for signs of shock. So far he was okay—at least, by the loosest definition possible. Well, he wasn't dead. Progress was progress.

A thumb was jerked in Caboose's direction. "Blue boy over here wants to keep Wash."

Predictably, no one took that news well.

"Are you out of your mind?" Grif shrieked, sounding uncharacteristically riled. "He's a fucking psychopath! He'll probably slit our throats in our sleep!"

"And what if the UNSC finds out that we helped a former wanted criminal?" Simmons objected. "We'll get arrested, too."

"Like hell they're dragging me off to some Freelancer dungeon to hang dry!" Sarge all but visibly bristled at the thought. "They might try and punish us by using us in their convoluted experiments. Turn us into lab rats! Guinea pigs! Throw us in the stockades!"

"Uh, Sarge? You _do_ know that unethical treatment of POWs was outlawed by the Third Geneva Convention in 1949…" Mutual stares of hostility and disbelief met Doc's halfhearted attempt to bring levity to their situation. "…Right."

"These guys were more than content with torturing their computer programs and soldiers," Tucker pointed out mulishly. "We're just cannon fodder to them. _Sim troopers_. What's going to stop them from doing the exact same thing to us?"

"But—" Caboose begged.

"Maybe we can use Washington as a bargaining chip," the maroon soldier proposed, though he didn't sound overly thrilled about their ordeal. "Like, in exchange for getting them off our backs."

"Guys…," Caboose implored desperately.

"God damn it, Caboose." The aqua soldier had leaped to his feet and was now pacing in an agitated line in front of the fire. On instinct Doc pulled Washington's body a little closer to his own. Pensive eyes warily regarded Tucker through his blood-smeared visor as he stopped, and whirled around to square off with his friend. "Do you even realize what you're asking of us? It'd be like waving a neon sign over our heads."

Nearby Grif had taken up a seat on an old tire. Judging by the size, it probably belonged to a Mongoose. "We already fixed him up; I don't see why we should go the extra mile."

"The only thing stopping you from going the extra mile is your laziness, dirtbag," Sarge grunted.

"With all due respect, sir, this really isn't the time," Simmons hesitantly piped up.

His gaze moved from visor to visor as Caboose silently implored his teammates. "But Church—"

"Is that what this is about?" The only other Blue present crossed his arms over his chest, in that instant emulating the very person he was referring to. "Look, I get it. Church is gone. That sucks." To Tucker's credit he_ did _sound genuinely upset by the recent loss of his CO. Interestingly, the Reds looked unsettled by the namedrop, too. "If you want I'll let you babysit Junior on weekends, or hell, we can get a goldfish or something. But inviting Wash is out of the question."

"Not to mention the goldfish isn't an ex-Special Ops guy with years of deadly military training." Grif propped his hands behind his orange helmet.

"And the little fellas only have three second memories. Look! You two already have something in common," said Sarge with an audible smirk in his tone. He pumped his shotgun toward the ceiling.

Little by little Caboose's shoulders sunk in defeat against the overwhelming refusal.

Feeling a pang of sympathy for the addled soldier, Doc deviated his attention away from the healing unit to Caboose. "Why are you so set on saving Wash?"

Caboose stared unflinchingly back. "Because we couldn't save Church."

A numb sort of sensation spread throughout his midriff.

Tucker froze with an arm outstretched, while Simmons had stiffened and Grif drew himself upright. Sarge remained impossibly still, like a coiled spring.

"We crashed a plane and made things explode and got rid of the evil astronaut that not even the Freelancer guys could get rid off," the rookie rambled. His helmet flicked in Washington's expression, regret and sorrow choking out his words worse than ivy. It made Doc feel cold inside, cold in a way that the snowstorm could never hope to touch. "But in spite of all of that stuff we still couldn't help Church or the mean scary lady. We can't have come this way for nothing."

Caboose turned toward them, _pleading_.

"I do not want to fail someone else."

A long, uncomfortable silence descended upon them.

"…Damn it," Grif swore, feelingly.

"He'll need a cover story," Sarge began in a low, disgruntled murmur.

"Easy." Tucker nodded outside toward the expanse of snow and ice. "We'll just give him Church's old armor."

"What about the recovery signal?" Simmons worried aloud. "Aren't all Freelancer armors rigged with those homing beacons that go off when one of them gets injured?"

A groan crawled its way out of Doc before he could fight back the sound. "You're right," he agreed heavily. All previous elation at having cheated Washington's fate vanished, as he recalled their brief tryst in the desert and the seemingly endless pursuit of said beacons. Even over long distances the signal could be tracked, and quickly, too, if his time spent chasing them down was any indicator. Within seconds of Church's injury the implanted beacon had shown up on Washington's radar.

Never mind the fact that the military, unlike him, Washington, and the Meta, had access to fast-travelling Pelicans and Hornets.

If the UNSC was actively hunting down those recovery beacons…

"We're going to have to act fast." The medic once more turned toward the two teams assembled around the fire. "Can you guys go find Church's armor and bring it here?"

"Nose goes," Grif called.

"Nose g—damn it!" Simmons shot his friend a cool glare beneath his helmet, before spinning around and marching off into the snowfall. Sarge muttered something under his breath before he strode out after his second.

"Wait for me!" Caboose gave an ecstatic shout as he bounded after them.

"So what now?" Tucker asked, sitting cross-legged to Doc's left. Completely at ease, Grif slouched back on his tire. His newly-acquired Brute Shot served as a footrest.

From his med kit Doc removed a small rag and began wiping the blood off his visor. "The wound's sealed up and the healing unit is doing its job, so really there's not a lot I can do. I mean, I could always give him a full-body physical—"

"Pass," both chimed in.

Doc frowned. "_Really_, guys. What is up with you? There's no need to get so embarrassed over the human physique! I'm pretty sure there's nothing Wash has that you don't."

The Blue soldier snorted. "Did you find that out for yourself while Wash had you as his prisoner?"

Thankfully the purple helmet did a good job of obscuring the heated flush spreading across his cheeks. "It wasn't like that," he stammered out, switching to the defensive.

"Now who's embarrassed?" Tucker taunted.

"No wonder you were so obsessed about making sure he didn't lose blood circulation," Grif snickered. "You were just afraid that he wouldn't be able to get it up again."

Doc sat up straighter and braced his hands on his knees, going so far as to scoot back an inch from the ex-Freelancer. "Come on, guys, that's not—"

A low, pained groan interrupted their conversation.

Instantly three pairs of eyes homed in on the still-but-not-quite-so-still form.

For a moment nothing had changed apart from the shallow rise and fall of Washington's chest. Then, after what felt like an eternity, his lips twitched. Another soft moan left the Recovery Agent as his eyelids fluttered open. Storm gray eyes groggily stared up at the two men who had crept closer to investigate. Something about the bizarre setting seemed to finally register in Washington's mind, and his eyes widened, all traces of delirium rapidly fading out of his expression.

Hardwired instincts had the Freelancer struggling to sit up before he could finish processing his surroundings. Alarmed, Doc scrabbled forward and placed both palms on his chest, pushing him back down.

"Easy, Wash. You're badly injured. You need to lie back down." Gently, but firmly, Doc eased the unresisting man back down onto his spine.

"How—what—when did I—?" His exhausted features darted between the Red, Blue, and medic, trying to make sense of his current circumstance. Washington made to prop himself up on his right elbow, only to break off into a harsh coughing fit.

"Grif, go see if this base has a running bathroom. See if you can find him some water."

Looking glad to have an excuse to leave, the orange soldier got up without a protest.

With endless patience Doc unhinged Washington's arm and straightened it back out, guiding the blonde-haired man into a horizontal position once more. Dark, haunted eyes widened at the contact, but he didn't struggle as Doc went about resetting his uninjured arm.

"What happened?" Washington demanded. His voice was gravelly and rough.

"We totally kicked the Meta's ass," Tucker jumped in, before Doc could explain. "Sent him flying right off the cliff!"

The former Freelancer blinked, as if he couldn't quite believe it. "He's…dead?"

"Yep. And we saved your life." Tucker tilted his chin up a fraction, tone oozing smugness. "Feel free to start bowing whenever you feel like it."

This time Washington looked up at Doc. "What about Epsilon?"

Tucker and Doc swapped looks.

Neither of them was keen on telling him the truth, but… "The memory unit failed," Doc admitted softly. "He's stuck in there."

Washington cursed and tipped back his head, throat arched. "Great. My one way ticket to getting out of custody."

"Actually, we think we have a plan to keep you from becoming someone's prison bitch," Tucker crowed. "We're gonna hide you on our team as one of us! Command will never see it coming!"

There were only so many surprises a man recovering from severe physical trauma could handle, and witness protection clearly wasn't one of them. This time Doc couldn't stop Washington from bolting upright.

"What do you mean you—_shit!_" The agent doubled over at the waist with a sharp hiss of pain.

"You can't strain yourself! What did I just say?" With a chastising glare aimed at Tucker Doc scooted next to Washington and physically maneuvered him into a recline, wincing every time his patient let slip an unintentional grunt. Settled on his back, he still couldn't get any relief from the pain the sudden movement had caused him.

"What happened to me?" Washington bit out through clenched teeth.

"You got shot through the shoulder and you might have a few broken ribs," Doc rattled off, inwardly flinching when Washington groaned. "The healing unit is speeding up your natural recovery, but it can't numb the affected areas."

A half-spasming hand reached across the space separating him from the medic's first aid kit. "Give me some morphine."

He reached into the container and pulled out the syringe in question, but refrained from administering it. "But if I numb you then I won't be able to monitor you for any changes in pain severity. You're not supposed to completely neutralize it, because the patient still needs to be able to feel any muscles spasms…"

Dumbfounded silence was his only reply—until Washington's eyes narrowed in barely-restrained fury. "That's for contractions during labor, you idiot! DO I LOOK LIKE I'M GIVING BIRTH RIGHT NOW?"

"That depends," Tucker answered. "Have you had any recent contact with aliens?"

Doc squared his shoulders. "I'm sorry, Wash, but I don't feel safe with giving—"

Before he could finish his sentence the ex-Freelancer lashed out and snatched the syringe from his hands, and then jammed the needle into his arm. The clench of his fist eased as he let the empty syringe roll out of his palm and onto the ground.

"I…hate…you," Washington rasped, letting his head loll back once more.

"I know." Doc sighed. He placed a soothing hand on the unstitched shoulder, and while Washington did growl at the contact, he didn't jerk away.

"Hey, Tucker!" From somewhere deeper in the building Grif's voice echoed. "I need your help! The sink's clogged!"

"Are you fucking kidding me?" the aqua soldier shouted back. "How the hell did you do that?"

"I don't know! Just come help me!"

"Fine." Sighing, Tucker hauled himself to his feet and strode off down the hall.

Leaving just the medic and Freelancer by themselves.

For once the sarcastic man had no witty remark at the ready. His sharp, angular features drifted to the left, taking in the stark contrast of the sutures against his bloodied skin. Calculating, intelligent eyes studied the wound, a vestige of some unknown emotion glinting in their storm-gray depths. Nervously Doc bit down on his lip. Much as he didn't like the silence, he was too ill at ease to try and make small talk.

Finally Washington craned his neck, just enough to place Doc from his periphery to the center of his vision. He lingered longest on the exposed, sleeveless arm that still bore traces of Doc's hasty tear-job.

"Why are you doing this?" The question was so weak that Doc nearly missed it.

"I took an oath." He shrugged.

Clearly that wasn't the answer Washington wanted, because he balled his fists. "I kidnapped you," he said in a low tone. "I held you hostage. I hurt you." He gave a pained cough, but his focus never wavered from the medic's visor. "Either you have the worst self-preservation instincts I have _ever_ seen, or I'm missing something."

"Uh…nope. I think you got it all," Doc informed him warily, still not sure what to make of this development.

Washington furrowed his brow. "By all rights you should have either left me to die, or at the very least handed me over to the UNSC."

"That's still an option, you know. Do you _want_ us to turn you in?"

"No." His nostrils flared as he snorted. "And that's not the point." Washington fixed the medic with his piercing gaze. "I don't understand: _why_ are you helping me? And don't blame it on Stockholm Syndrome."

To that Doc hesitated, long enough to gather his thoughts.

"…Well, I couldn't let you die. What would that have proved? Besides…" Doc cleared his throat. "You don't deserve any of the stuff that happened to you. I may not be a good medic, but at least I know I could do one thing right."

The intensity of Washington's stare increased tenfold. His jaw dropped open, and that brief glimpse of that unidentifiable emotion Doc saw earlier returned. The muscles in his throat worked, Adam's apple bobbing as the agent regarded the figure crouched beside him.

"…We're still not friends," he murmured, his tone suspiciously dry. Washington continued to frown at the medic, but this time his features softened.

"I know." Doc smiled under his helmet. "But it's a start."

* * *

If it weren't already painfully obvious, I have never played a Halo game before, so I have absolutely no idea how the _Mjölnir_ suits work. I pretty much bullshitted how the armor attaches and made a lot of guesstimates. The "fibrous polymer mesh" under the primary layer was taken from the Halo 4 armor designs in Season 11. It kinda looks like there's this chainmail-like texture underneath, as seen in the gap between the shoulder pad and chestplate. Make of that what you will. (I sure as hell did. I mean come on, _zippers_. _Zippers, man_. That's comedy waiting to be made. Several hundred years' worth of technological innovation and the best Dr. Halsey could come up with was _zippers_. So much for the Spartans being the advanced supersoldiers of the galaxy.)


End file.
